While Quin worked, the sun came alive and burned off much of the haze, casing a shadow over his shoulder. A sense of serenity veiled Quin as he placed the wildflowers on the grave still glistening with dew. As though someone touched his soul, he shivered. He had to be going loco because he was certain he had heard his mother’s voice. “Live my son. Live for me.”

Quin laid his head on the grave. A tear dropped silently on the wildflowers. He knew it wasn’t manly to cry, but maybe he should have done it years ago.

Swinging into his saddle, Quin headed Buckskin for Amarillo, with thoughts of Kaira heavy on his mind.

He’d never experienced such heated passion as he did with her. She brought out both the best and the worst in him…the beast in him. She seemed to find perverse pleasure in challenging him to protect her. Every curve of her body spoke defiance, with a hint of maddening arrogance. Quin loved the way she had prickled up when her anger turned to scalding fury. She had hurled words at him like stones. Damn, he thought he might be in love with her. A gal to match him tit-for-tat. He’d seen salty women in his life, but none like Kaira Clarice Renaulde.

“Quinten Corbett.” Miss Harper’s voice penetrated Quin’s thoughts and brought him back to the streets of Amarillo. “I do believe I lost you for a moment.” She smiled, her big eyes blaring in excitement.

“No, ma’am. I heard every word. Would you excuse me?” Quin made his getaway before she could grab his arm again.

Quin virtually slammed the door behind him. He took off his Stetson and hung it along with his slicker on the peg, mumbling a sheepish hello to Kaira, who sat at her desk reading.

Out of habit, he checked the time. Three sixteen. Damn, he’d missed dinner and supper wouldn’t be served until five o’clock. Miss Maggie never varied her schedule an iota.

Walking to his desk, he caught sight of Kaira tucking wayward strands of hair back into place. She seemed flustered and a bit nervous as she pulled at the cuffs of her sleeves, barely glancing up.

“Are you getting sick?” He noted the beads of perspiration on her forehead, and a shimmering of blush that ran across her neckline and downward toward her…attributes.

“No. I’m…fine.” She sounded winded.

“Did you have a good morning?” Quin retrieved his apron from the back of his chair.

“Yes, thank you.” Her blush deepened to crimson.

Quin was certain he’d hung the apron in its regular place when he left, but then he’d been pretty angry and might have forgotten to put it up.

He slid the protector over his head, surprised by the warmth left over from being recently worn. It was Kaira’s warmth, and dern if he didn’t think he smelled her-lily of the valley on the cowhide. But why had she worn his work apron?

Kaira watched Quin pull a stack of handwritten pages from his center desk drawer. He carefully sat them on the typesetting table.

Uncertainty clutched at her heart.

Quin flashed a brief, arresting smile that dazzled against his sun-drenched skin. He was even more stunningly virile than ever. Blasted, he was so charming when he smiled.

Clenching and unclenching her hands, Kaira squirmed in her seat, wishing her uncomfortableness would subside and she could scrounge up the courage to ask him where he had spent the night. But then it wasn’t any of her concern.

Dern it! The man looked better than any French pastry she’d ever tasted. A delicacy that once you are introduced to, you can’t do without. Although still unruly, Quin’s dark hair was shorter and he was freshly shaven, smelling of soap, leather, and a hint of lilac aftershave.

“I ran into Monk last night. He’s been working too hard, so with you here to help, I told him to take the rest of the day off. He’s picked up enough news off the telegraph to put together a decent paper next week.”

“Do you still need a piece?” Although Quin had typeset most of the next edition, she knew he still had white space, something not profitable to a publisher.

“I could use it. Got one?” A flash of humor crossed his face. “One that doesn’t have anything to do with melons or apples. No fruit at all.”

“And no Mark Twain?” Half leery of his good humor, she flashed a tentative smile. Fully prepared for him to quill up at the notion that she had a serious story, she said, “Yes, I have something. It isn’t gossip. It’s a peace offering to prove my renewed commitment to the success of the paper.”

“Then for once, we’re both plowing in the same direction, huh?” He spoke in a kind, jesting way. “Did you put it in the drawer with the others or do you have it on you?”

“I have it in here.” She reached for her caba, hesitating slightly. “Before you start typesetting it, we need to talk.”

“Kaira, generally you do the talking and I do the listening, so why don’t you start and I’ll catch up with you.” He went back to his desk and sat down.

“Why did Monk sell the newspaper to my family?”

“The ol’ coot didn’t tell you?” Quin looked surprised and a bit hesitant to say more.

“No-no, he didn’t and I need to know.”

“He sold the newspaper after I got hurt to pay the taxes on the ranch. We’d depleted most of our funds, and the money we were suppose to receive for the few head that did make it to market never got back to us.”

“I didn’t know. So, how did you become the editor-in-chief?”

“He didn’t tell you that either?” Quin didn’t wait for her reply. “It’ll only disappoint you.”

“That’s exactly what Monk said, so tell me the truth…all of the truth.”

“Let’s just say he and your grandfather didn’t see eye to eye. Didn’t share the same philosophies. Monk pretty much wanted to stay low-key and not disturb folks. Renaulde wanted big changes that most of the new frontier wasn’t prepared for. Monk was bound and determined not to give in and they fired him.”

“Fired him!” She was appalled. The cold and heartless cad. Terminating someone because they didn’t share his opinion.

“Yep. I stepped in and agreed to become the editor, only if they’d leave me be, let me hire my own assistant, and pay his wages out of my own pocket.”

“That is an atrocity.” She wasn’t sure that the soft spot she had for the old man wasn’t responsible for much of her ire. She opened her pocketbook and retrieved two envelopes that she had carefully protected all the way from Boston to Texas.

“Quin, I know I haven’t appeared to take my employment very seriously, but I want to begin. I want to learn. I’m well educated and have something to offer. Here is a piece I brought with me.” Carefully, she avoided saying a piece that her grandfather had given her in return for her promise that she’d get it into the newspaper. “It’s an editorial.”

“We don’t do editorials.” He smiled, backing off. “But let me read it.”

“Grandfather said that they are what makes a newspaper sophisticated, gives it respect, and increases circulation.”

Kaira took a deep breath, thinking back to when her grandfather had given her the article. How he explained that she would know when the time was right to give it to Quin. That it was the kind of piece that would set a journalist apart from a reporter. Not some silly writing about the patent dispute over the flexibles. As he had pointed out, paper matches would never replace stick ones.

He warned her that she didn’t want to spend all of her career reporting on events such as the new drinking straws that they were sure would catch on. Or the Atlanta druggist who was peddling his new concoction, Coca-Cola, right out of his store. There might be a story there if the two got together; otherwise, she’d spend her career trying to create a name for herself out of drivel and other’s troubles.

Grandfather had promised the editorial would make him proud of her and she would be a real journalist. A reporter who could make big money selling her stories to McClure’s and Ladies Home Journal. She’d be somebody to reckon with.

“Are you going to give the article to me or do I need to hogtie you to get it?” Another arresting smile appeared.

Kara handed both envelopes to Quin and returned to her chair. Facing him, she fidgeted in anticipation. She visualized the pleasure on his face after he read the story.

Grandfather said it would put the Panhandle Herald on the map and everyone would be talking about the story.

Quin placed the thinner envelope in his desk drawer. “Bonus for the Masterson story,” he said. Carefully he unsealed the thicker one.

Leaning back in his chair, he slowly, methodically read the editorial, occasionally peering up at her over his glasses.

Once finished, he returned to the first sheet. After rereading each page, he turned it face down on his desk and continued on. He read each word, almost too carefully. His jaw clenched tighter and tighter as he read further. His eyes became stormy, and his brow furrowed into a frown. Apparently, he wasn’t as enthralled with the story as she thought he’d be.

Quin laid the editorial on the desk. He removed his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes. Opening his pocket watch, he checked the time and closed the gold cover.

Kaira fidgeted in the quietness, feeling a black cloud hovering overhead. The spirited editor’s attitude had changed, dampening the air with gloom.

He gathered the parchments in a bundle, folded them neatly, and tapped the edges on the desktop, apparently weighing his words carefully. “You didn’t write this.” Quin’s voice was uncompromising yet oddly gentle, quickly turning rigid. “I would have thought that coming from a publishing family you would know that plagiarism is the worst breach of ethics.” He set his jaw and continued to tap on the table. “Maybe presenting something old and contrived is acceptable in Boston, but it isn’t in Texas. At least not while I’m the editor.”